By morning, Adam knew the name of the Adept who had arrived.
He had felt it the evening before—the quality of the soul-force, controlled and deliberate in a way that didn't belong to anyone ordinary. He'd caught a glimpse of the banners as well, half-hidden in the low light near the owner's tent. That had been enough.
House Crownhold.
Under different circumstances, he might have recognized it instantly. Someone with his reputation—sharp, observant, capable—should have known it on sight.
But the truth was simpler.
His mind was his strength.
Not his education.
Adam had not grown up with the kind of knowledge noble-born students carried without thinking. The outpost hadn't taught heraldry. It hadn't cared about the histories of old houses or the meaning behind their symbols. Survival didn't require that kind of learning.
The Academy had helped. Filled in gaps. Given structure where there had been none.
But it hadn't erased the difference.
